“The offices — that’s where that man who worked here was...” Mrs. McPherson, looking self-conscious and getting a stern eyeballing from her husband, let the sentence trail off.
“Yes.” Nella pressed her lips together and studied her serviceable low-heeled black pumps. “That’s where Mr. Meade was killed by that private detective. A tragedy, awful.”
I started to respond to that trial-by-tour-guide remark, but stifled myself. Sobered at the mention of Meade’s murder, we shuffled out of the huge sanctuary and moved on to the office-and-classroom wing. Nella showed us a couple of the classrooms, which would have made most universities envious, and as we walked along the hallway, a stunning brunette approached. “Hi, Nella,” she said with a smile that could melt the polar ice cap. “How’re those lovely grandchildren of yours?”
“Just fine thanks, Elise,” she answered as the brunette moved fluidly away down the hall. Already my life seemed emptier.
“Who was that beautiful woman?” the Kentucky lady whispered, asking the question for all of us.
“Elise Bay, Barney’s wife,” Nella said. “And she’s every bit as nice as she is beautiful. She’s very active in the tabernacle’s work. She was Miss North Carolina once, and from what’s been said, she should have been Miss America instead of second runner-up, but, well, there were politics involved. You know how that can be.”
We all nodded and continued on along the hall. I considered hanging back and drifting away from the group to do a little further solo exploring of the premises, but I took a pass. Wolfe has told me more than once that I lack patience, and after all, he had a plan. Or so he said.
Seven
By the time I arrived back at the brownstone, Wolfe had finished lunch and was in the office with coffee and his book. Fritz, bless him, had saved me a plate of rice fritters with black currant jam, so I voted my priorities by sitting in the kitchen and polishing off the fritters, then chasing them with two wedges of blueberry pie before reporting. Besides, if I had gone straight in to see Wolfe, he would have refused to hear me out until I’d eaten anyway. If he had a motto, it would be something like “Food first, all else in due course.”
When I did get to the office, carrying a cup of java, he was ready to listen. I gave him a fill-in, including my tour of the buildings and grounds. He kept his eyes shut throughout my report, scowling a couple of times and grimacing when I told him that Nella the tour guide had tried and convicted Fred. When I finished, he drew in air, letting it out slowly.
“Confound it,” he grumped, ringing for beer, “get that minister on the phone.” Wolfe always assumes I can reach anybody instantly just by picking up the phone, dialing, and declaring that Nero Wolfe is the caller. I punched the church’s number, and the redhead who sits in the splashy lobby answered again. I asked for Bay, and she put me through without any questions.
“Doctor Bay’s office,” a pleasant female voice answered.
“Nero Wolfe calling,” I told her, nodding to Wolfe, who picked up his instrument.
“What is this in reference to?” she asked politely.
“I think he’ll know,” I replied, and we got put on hold. For the next thirty seconds, we both were treated to the strains of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” which for me brought memories of my Sunday-school days in Chillicothe. I’m not sure what it brought Wolfe, who doesn’t like using telephones and likes hearing recorded music on them even less, but the hymn got interrupted in midverse by a voice only slightly tinged with a southern drawl. “Barney Bay here,” it said. I stayed on the line.
“Mr. Bay, this is Nero Wolfe. I believe you know of me.”
“I do indeed,” the reverend replied evenly, “by reputation.”
“I am drawing on that reputation to impose upon you, sir. I need to talk to you, preferably today.”
“Well, I have a few minutes right now...”
“This conversation must be in person, and at the risk of further imposition, I request that it be held in my house, as I rarely leave it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe,” Bay said, his voice still even, “but I have a meeting in less than a half-hour, and I’m teaching an adult class here at the church tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then.” It wasn’t a question.
I could hear Bay breathing, then sighing. “I assume this has to do with Roy Meade’s death and your Durkin fellow.”
“It does, sir, and it would be in the best interests of both you and your church if you spoke with me. I assure you I will not prolong the discussion unnecessarily. My time, like yours, has immutable value.”
Another sigh. “All right, I can come tomorrow, in the midmorning. Ten-thirty?”
“Eleven,” Wolfe corrected, then gave him our address. Bay agreed without enthusiasm.
“Okay, you’ve pulled it off,” I said after we cradled our receivers. “I would’ve bet three-to-two against. Congratulations.”
Although you’ll never get him to admit it, Wolfe enjoys praise as much as the next guy. His mouth formed what passes for a smile, and he went back to his beer and his reading, while I swiveled to my desk, where orchid-germination records awaited updating.
The next morning, Wolfe beat Bay to the office, but only by half a length. It was precisely eleven when the groaning elevator announced the great man’s descent from the plant rooms. He was crossing the sill into the office as the doorbell rang. “Get yourself comfortable,” I told him, “while I play butler.”
Viewed through the one-way glass in the front door, Barnabas Bay, clad in a light gray suit that made me want to ask the name of his tailor, looked surprisingly like the painting I’d seen twenty-four hours earlier in the tabernacle, right down to the warm-but-not-smug half-smile. He was alone on the stoop, although I could see someone behind the wheel of the modest dark blue sedan parked at the curb.
I opened the door and gestured him in. “Mr. Bay, I’m Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe’s assistant.”
“Oh yes, of course, Lloyd has spoken of you,” he said in his gentle drawl, giving me a firm handshake. “In fact, he said you were at the tabernacle yesterday. Sorry I couldn’t see you, but I had meetings all day. If I had known in advance...”
I told him not to worry about it, that I’d taken a tour. By then, we were entering the office, where I made introductions. Bay, who sensed Wolfe isn’t big on shaking hands, nodded a greeting and eased into the red leather chair.
Wolfe leaned back and considered his guest. “Would you like anything to drink? I’m having beer.”
“Ice water, please,” Bay responded. Like Morgan, he had one of those spire-shaped pins on his lapel.
“Your given name is Robert Bailey,” Wolfe went on after he’d touched the buzzer under his desk, summoning Fritz. “Why did you change it?”
If the question caught Bay off balance, he didn’t let it show. “I’m afraid ministers are not without their vanities,” he said with a shrug. I could see how he would project well on television. He had the looks, to be sure, and all his gestures seemed natural and fluid. “As a seminarian in Georgia, I grew to admire Barnabas very much. He worked closely with Paul in Antioch, and—”
“I am aware of who he was.” Wolfe was taking the biblical lecture with his usual good grace. “A good man, full of the Holy Spirit and faith, and a great number of people were brought to the Lord.”
Bay nodded, and his grin revealed teeth that could light up a revival tent. “Acts 11:24. You know your Bible well.”
“It is literature,” Wolfe responded. “Why the altered surname?”
“You seem very interested in my names,” Bay answered good-naturedly. “I could tell you that I thought Bay seemed more dramatic than Bailey, which I suppose is partly the case. The main reason, though, is that my father deserted the family when I was eight. None of us ever saw him again. My mother raised four of us by working two full-time jobs, which probably took at least ten years off her life. I couldn’t forgive him, and I didn’t want to carry his name.”